


Scion

by celestialcello



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AndByExtensionMonsterFucker!Will, FannibalGiftExchange2020, M/M, monster!hannibal, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialcello/pseuds/celestialcello
Summary: Gift fic for @mferret9 as part of the #FannibalGiftExchange2020🎄! Merry Christmas y'all✨❤️Also a special thanks to @muddledhorror from my Discord server who agreed to be my beta-reader after my very last-minute reach out effort! With their help hopefully I'd be able to improve the story later on.On a side note, this is not your traditional holiday fic. Mainly just Hannibal and Will having annoying philosophical discussion in winters. Enjoy!
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 4





	Scion

**January, 1936**

  
Hannibal was used to the bizarre shadows of a past that could not possibly belong to him for as long as he could remember dreaming. In those fragments of time he had watched himself traipsing through odd places and strange events. A constant presence was by his side - a companion, a friend, foreign blood coursing through his heart. He sometimes watched him through a glass, trying to reach the other side.  
Then every morning, he woke up with a name on his tongue vanishing into the intruding dawn.

When his first art tutor arrived at the mansion, he began to sketch down glimpses he had preserved from the ephemerality of dreams and imprisoned these in his memories. The curve of a muscular shoulder, a vague figure from the back covered in uncertain scars, whispering lips, eyes tainted with a watery glisten. He accrued hundreds of them in a sketch book in the bottom drawer of his study.  
Over days, months, and unending years.

He longed to see his countenance and know his form. He craved for the name that he must have uttered in some other time.

**December 23rd, 1939**

It was snowing outside when he descended into the depth of the basement. Hints of music followed him through the meandering hallways, the intertwined crosses and stretch, until shadow engulfed him. The feigned excuse of affections from the family’s associates interested him not, for he understood them, too well, too soon; nor did his parents - they were by his judgement at most moderately capable of telling half-decent lies donning a mask of self-control. There was no warmth left between them, since a long time ago. The only hint of genuineness left in this household (his sister, Mischa. They would go see the snow tomorrow morning) was asleep upstairs under the watch of an elderly, pale maid who was probably dozing off by the fireplace herself.

Fortunately the estate was at least blessed with a respectable collection of scrolls and books. Thus, he grew up mostly under the guardianship of leather-bounded volumes and quiet crackling of the flame late into the night, until distant cries of uncertain, ancient beings echoed through the dense forest surrounding the castle. Only then he delighted in the hint of danger beyond the oppressing solemness of his household. Otherwise, as far as it represented the enticing lure of power, it meant that he had to put up with some less than savoury characters. But all in due time, he had decided, the day would eventually come when he could rid himself of their pestilence.

Hannibal continued his journey downwards, trotting along the edge of light like a panther: soft steps, quiet eyes and glinting fangs.  
He was on his way to meet an unusual acquaintance.

The last night of autumn was when he first met the creature in the decorative rococo mirror hanging above the fireplace of the library. The blaze was dwindling as it consumed the woods and ashes. Gradually even those memories of lights sank down into the fathomless depth of the supposedly lucid surface. Instead of himself, a pair of eyes emerged like frosty blue stars at the bottom of an abyss. They beckoned him. Unnatural. Ancient. _Hungryhungryhungry_ -

With a deft flick of finger, the young heir closed the volume of Lord Byron (there was something distinctively disturbing about his proses, though a little insincere, he decided) and placed it down on the table inlaid with nacre and turtle shell . Even as the eyes devoured away the remnant of warmth in the room, Hannibal found himself approaching the mirror until he was only a few steps from walking into the rebelling sparkles.  
The stranger watched with reassured curiosity of those things that knew they were dangerous. Neither spoke, at first, until Hannibal heard an amused remark somewhere in his mind, the sound resembling that of a man. He raised his eyebrows at the effortless flow of the harsh vowels and consonants. Cantabile, even.

“You are not surprised.”

“Why should I be? This is my household, and a guest must obey certain rules of politeness.”

“What if I tell you that I may violate them whenever I wish? These assumptions pose no threat to me, after all.”

Hannibal studied the shapeless void and the pair of glimmering cyan that shifted into different shades like night sea under the beacon of a lighthouse. His face, usually wearing a stern look mismatching his age, was lightened with a rare joy.

“You would have done so a long time ago if that was the case. Yet you did not.”

“What a cunning boy you are. Do you know what I am?”

“A figment of madness, or an unnamed thing from the dark.”

“Poetic. Little have you changed, it seems, even when you remember and know nothing.” The eyes were by then the disquieting, misty green of primordial forests that never knew the meaning of day in the perennial silence. Hannibal was, much to his chagrin, slightly offended. He considered himself quite knowledgable given the time he has been alive, and it was of poor taste for his interlocutor to take advantage of the difference in age. No one could control the time.

“Maybe you could enlighten me, then.”

“Do you know the origin of monsters?” There was a tinge of… sadness in the way the creature asked the question, accompanied by a surge of the smell of hyacinth in the library. Hannibal paused, weighing the shift of atmosphere and his own response.

“Pliny the Elder certainly had his theories.”

“Those are…. Histories. But the answers for us lie in memories, in events and people that are never truly dead or over. The hints you seek exist in those that have long been obliterated, in fragments and shattered pieces.”

“You are contradicting yourself.” Hannibal almost wanted to raise his hands to reach over when the eyes gradually faded away into the receding depth of the glass.

Since then he began to spend days after days perusing through mythology, exegesis on demonology, even books of alchemy and witchcraft.

Throughout nights, he wandered through the rooms with mirrors, locked or open, in the hope of resuming the conservation again until one of the servants, mortified by the figure of the young master wandering the house at night, led him back to his bedroom. While his parents must have been aware of his ventures, they showed no signs of being concerned - there were estates and properties for which accountancy work needed to begin, families they needed to liaise with, events to attend and plan for. As long as Hannibal could remain the stellar young heir he already was, the Count and Countess would much prefer the squadron of tutors to take on these extra responsibilities of childcare.

And now with the muffled sound of words and music sheltered away by layers of walls and floors, Hannibal opened the slightly rusted lock hanging on the oakwood door. Waves of coldness crept out from underneath the door and clang to the hem of his trousers like invisible claws of a sinister beast. He revelled in their ghostly touch. The lock gave way to his will in a quiet click, welcoming him with ashes and spider webs dancing in the halo of the lantern he was holding in his hand.

There, greeting him, in the distant familiarity and unrelenting darkness, the same eyes watched him from the reflection of an antique full-length mirror that the family had kept there since forever to accommodate the potential whim of the next Countess. This time, Hannibal caught a hint of the pale skin and the black hair like ebony.

“Here we are again. Hannibal.”

“Do you not consider it unjust that you know my name but I not yours?”

“Is that what you believe in, justice, or some form of inherent fairness yet to be found in this world?” Another question for his question, riddles within riddles. Curious, how the most heinous things that wonder the Earth always appeared to be wiser than the rest, Hannibal thought to himself. The flickering light of his lantern casted shadows underneath his cheekbone and oddly somber eyes.

“I believe in beauty that is inherent in all human and non-human endeavours, its enthralling power and lightless beacon, both sobering and intoxicating. You, who travel among the world of mirrors and allegedly flaunt laws of the land, too conform to its rules and belong to its kingdom.”

  
“Even violence, even cruelty?”

“Among these there are taxonomies and genus, those who serve as a path to beauty ought to be revelled, while the others be condemned. The display of justice was once considered an entertainment in Rome, as a prelude to some of the purest display of brutality seen in our history.”  
His companion fell silent, and Hannibal seized the chance to pose his own question, one that for now demanded his attention more than the countless other ones left unanswered during their first encounter, “What do you believe in, then?”

Just as he thought there would be no response, the stranger spoke, and through the shrouds of shadow Hannibal thought he had moved closer, somehow.

“I believe in justice, but have developed an appreciation of beauty since I knew you.”

“This is only the second time we have spoken.” He could sense the intention of the creature, throwing out the same mysteries at him once again, but Hannibal could not help but fall for it.

“So you think.”

There was something about the way he said it - the inflection, the barely restrained sorrow, the tone, or even the voice itself, perhaps - that sent the thought across Hannibal’s mind that this must be the man he had been trying to peek at in the kaleidoscope of imageries and dreams. A knowledge that saw the young master froze temporarily, his jawline stiff and his grip on the lantern tightened.

Hannibal never knew fear until that moment. The moment when an answer to the only problem that had plagued him his entire life, an answer with a deadly promise, most likely. Those who were involved with the supernaturals rarely escaped their fate unscathed. Their retributions often came centuries and lives later.

But how exciting, at the same time. A passage into danger that could promise power beyond the mortal world, of an unknown past.

Within a blink the last flicker of fire evaporated into smoke in the lantern, and now the only source of light came from the mirror, like storm over a winter lake. Paying no attention to the sound of the metal frame striking the floor, Hannibal walked until he could place his own palm over the cold, lifeless surface, with the determination in his eyes running so close to crazed obsession that surprised the visitor in the mirror.

“I have seen your shadows for years. I have been looking for you. Please, tell me your name, at least, even if I were never to see you again.” He spoke quickly and in an urgent, pleading voice. He could already hear footsteps approaching the stairs leading to the underground, the whiff of his mother’s perfume wafting through the air like an unwelcomed phantom. Hannibal was hoping that some manner and concession would earn him the answer he needed, with a desperation that almost made him contempt himself.

“Why name, out of all the things you could ask?”

“As a hint, and a signal to answer. It was only fair for a riddle master to give a sign.”

A chuckle. He watched a pale hand tracing his own from the other side of the glass, a scene so familiar that Hannibal only noticed the single drop of tear falling to the ground until warm air from behind poured in through the door that has been flung open, too bright that it sent him snarling, like those that have found solace in darkness when they were disturbed by the company of things not in their nature.

“You used to call me Will. Remember that. ”

**January 20th, 1940**

The forest was quiet tonight in its frozen slumber, with only the crunch of new snow and occasional snap of the branches answering Hannibal’s each step. Patches of moonlight dripped down from the gaps between the trees, forging dapples of glimmering silver. But otherwise he was as quiet as any beast who glided their way through its territory in silent lethality.

He travelled down the hidden paths in practiced steps until the woods gave way to an opening, a respite from the curious glance of the owls and sleepless ravens. And in front of him lied the lake carved into the earth like the purest of diamond.

He stopped by its edge, and the reflection smiling at him from the bitter surface belonged not to the eager face of the eldest son of the Lecter, but the inhumane, cruel beauty of Will, the visitor, the shadow he had chased in year-long reveries. Since their conversation last winter, Hannibal had been able to see more details from his dreams every night.

“I didn’t expect you to figure it out so soon.”

“The mirror that only exists in winter. It was fairly obvious, after all.”

“You won. And I shall answer three questions from you, as promised.”

“The candour in your offer is unexpected.”

“Today you have turned twenty, _after all_.” Will replied, and Hannibal thought there was an unusual crimson clinging to those lips. He wanted to sink his own teeth deep into the warm flesh and draw blood from it. Would it be warm, or would be cold like the water?

“Why today, then?”

“I was of a similar age when I decided to kill you, too.”

“I remember the cage of glass, but never death. Even in those memories of your visits from the other side, I could not feel hatred. Therefore whatever you did, it was not my life that you were after.”

Will frowned, and did not speak again until after long moments of hesitance.

Above them, a black bird rose into the nightly sky adorned by sparse constellations.

“I see, we know each other too well for such trivial lies. No, eventually I could not kill you. I imprisoned you instead.”

“You could not tell me these answers freely.” Hannibal’s breath raised into the dry, barren air like gossamer of morning mists. In one of those memories, he did remember holding Will in his arms, still alive but turning colder and colder every second, trudging through snow that buried him to his waist. His long talons coated in dried blood, his fangs aching from the latest feast.

“Because the choice is now yours, Hannibal. I could only tell you what you want to know.”

“How long have you lived in the land of mirror, then?” The second question.

He watched Will making an effort for a lopsided grin that eventually fell into a neutral calmness, those eyes that Hannibal have by now sketched a thousand times wore a steady blue, deeper than the sky and sea combined.

“Since the moment I released you. Since the moment I regretted.”

“Yet you did not take my place out of guilt alone.” He observed Will, his thin veneer of indifference and the unmistakable, mismatched pain in his answer. Hannibal kneeled down, paying no mind to his ruined pants and traced the side of the other man’s cheek, a move that startled Will as he flinched momentarily from the surface of the ice.

“No, it was the only way you could be… free. Some monsters are destined to wander.”

“Dearest Will, spare me the untruth. How could one be free without knowledge of oneself?”

“By knowing the origin of all horrors.”

Hannibal considered it, and reminisced on the lost time when those who looked into his eyes died in agony and fear. And in the emptiness of his countless victories, alone came the young man burning with not ashen terror but an anger so fierce like the first sparkle of fire under the watch of snow.

“We are all blood of men, Will, but scions of monsters, too. For there were no monsters before men, and humanity was a concept devoid of meaning until we knew the nature of the opposite.”

“One could not exist without the other.”

He leaned closer, pressing the palm of his right hand harshly against the surface. Minuscule fractures emanated from the newly-formed epicentre, forming patterns like the web knitted by a giant spider. Hannibal’s smile echoed the joy of Will’s own.

When the mirror of ice gave way to the roiling water, Hannibal reached deep into its cavity, and never looked back.

**And the beginning of the tale of two winters**

Once upon a time, Vilnius was ruled by the terror of a monster, the king of all serpents, the deadliest of dragons. Those who dared to take even one look into those crimson eyes fell and became fleshless skeletons. Men and women feared him, and all the towns and villages willingly offered sacrifices to preserve themselves, their families and wealths. Honour became a convenient second-thought - human knew no mercy to its own kind, after all.

But years and years after, the monster residing on the throne of bones grew lonely and bored. He had tasted all the fears and desires of human, of their despicable treacherousness and unbearable ignorance. Until, behold, on one winter, a young man who was rumoured to be a son of the devil was chosen as the sacrifice of a small village. The men drugged him with poisonous herbs, and left him and the daughter of a murderer in the fathomless depth of the forest, territory of the monster.

It arrived, and was ready for the meaningless labour of slaughter when the young man held the sharp talons in his trembling fingers, seemingly unaware of the paralysing pain and stream of blood dripping down from his palm and fingers, growing a garden of darkened roses and poppies around his knees.

“Almighty Basilisk, I beseech thee, let the innocent girl leave thine forest, and I shall be thine feast.”

It was amused, deeply, and wondered for how long this young man could put up with the play of altruism. As such the monster agreed, and sent the girl to the other side of the forest, to a city that would allow her to live freely.

For years the monster wandered through his territory with the young man instead of consuming his flesh, to the its surprise. It even allowed the man to name him, the one night when Will drowned a corrupt judge and brought his liver to the monster as his offering. Yet it never allowed Will to speak one word to another mortal, never let him out of the forest even when he accompanied the young man on travels across land and sea as they wished.

For his cruelty Hannibal (he was tamed, and chained by accepting the name) deserved his own punishment. They were among the debris of temples and treasuries of Mycenae when Will held the polished surface of a mirror across his eyes.

He only smiled, and looked into its depth for an eternal sleep. All that the monster could think of was the pair of brilliant eyes that watched over him with tears. Such was the fate of them.

Centuries later, when the kingdoms of men rose and died in thousands of wars and became empires that then collapsed, Hannibal only managed to catch a passing sight of his captor again before his memory crumbled into shards and pieces like broken glass. He etched the weightless sigh onto his bone. He remembered that voice with the first and last beat of his heart.

“Begone, dearest. And please know I repent for what I have done.”

“I will take your place in the unjust prison I have imposed upon you. And remain so until you choose to free me from death by drowning.”

**The end of winter, 1944**

The land was repugnant with its burning marks and nameless graves, an unending, relentless winter that saw men crueller and fiercer than the most ancient of beasts wandering through wind and ice for a selfish chance of survival.

Mischa hid herself underneath a damp blanket at the corner of the lodge. She was too young to fully comprehend what happened. She was old enough to know that there was perhaps nothing she could do now that her parents were dead. She watched their bodies decomposing in the aftermath of an airstrike in the rains of summer and now buried under the new snow.

She tried to hold her breath for as long as she could when the door to the lodge opened with a quiet creak but no sound of military boots striking the mouldy floor could be heard. Instead, Mischa focused, and figured out distant conversations in words that were at once foreign and and reassuring. She fell asleep somewhere along the turn of sentences.

“You chose to come back to her.”

“We have grown to be more and more similar, Will. The influence of characters goes both ways.”

“Good. Although I would like to think that you have been changed more than I was.”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading❤️ 
> 
> Also I know back in October I promised to expand on several ficlets but close to the end of the year I had to write a LOT of essays. So I'm still recuperating (?) but there is something coming up!


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